The Rating Game

I went on a date a few years back with a girl named Cathy.  She wanted to hike a nearby state park.  I asked her for directions, but she said that it would be easier if we met up for a quick lunch first and if she drove us both to the place afterward.  Sounded good to me.  I can run fast.

We stopped at a local coffee place.  I should have known that things were going to be rough from the instant I ordered a turkey sandwich.  She asked me if I knew that birds were routinely tortured.  I asked her if she knew that birds were routinely delicious.  She frowned at that.

Then the weirdest thing happened.  She ordered the same exact thing.  Turkey sandwich.  Hold the mayo.  Extra mustard.

I said, "I thought that you didn't like to eat tortured foods."

She pointed to a sign behind the counter that said that all of their meats came from a local farm with free range policies, no artificial growth hormone, and where turkeys are treated well, given massages, taught English, etc.

She said, "Ha!" far louder than necessary, which wasn't an accomplishment, as she shouldn't have said it at all.

While we ate, I noticed that she'd never eat while I was eating.  She'd wait for me to stop, and then she'd sneak in a bite.  I asked her, "What are you doing?"

"What?"

"You're not eating unless I stop."

"And that's... weird?"

"We can eat in unison!"

"Okay."

I took another bite and she said, "Six point two."

"What?"

"Six point two."

This was a strange thing to say, but I was hungry, so I took another bite.

"Five.  Point zero."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your chewing."

"You're rating my chewing?"

"Ooh.  Talking with your mouth full.  That's a solid zero there, bucko."

"Please don't rate my chewing."

"Fine."

I asked her, "Do you play any sports?"

She thought for a moment, then said, "Four... point one."

"I thought that I asked you to stop rating my chewing."

"I'm not rating your chewing anymore.  I'm rating your conversation topics now."

"Can you stop rating me in general?"

She dropped her shoulders and looked like Twilight fan number 101 in line for a Robert Pattinson meet-and-greet at a 100-seat venue.

She said, "Zero."

"Look, Cathy–"

"I was just rating how much I like that idea!  Don't get so defensive!"

"Are you ready to hit up that park?"

"I'm not done with my sandwich yet.  Finish yours, please."

She drove us to the park, and we had the most awkward hike in history.

"Two point four," she said, then, "Your posture when you walk."

"Six point zero," she'd say, "Your pace."

"One point zero," she said, "The way you're looking at me, now."

When I stopped to drink some water, she said, "Will you save some of that for me?"

I replied, "There are three more bottles in the bag."

"I know, but I want water from yours."

I stared at her, then handed her my bottle.

"Ten!  Ten!  Ten!" she squealed.  It's okay, number 101!  There's a Taylor Lautner meet-and-greet right across the street!

I stopped to take some photos of the landscape.  Impatient, she moaned, "Five... five.. four point nine... four point eight... four point seven... four point six..."

I was done taking photos by "Three point five," but I was so curious as to what she'd do when I bottomed out that I kept snapping shots.

"Zero," she said, and then once more, as if I didn't hear it the first time, "Zero."

I turned to her and asked, "What now?  Negatives?  Complex?"  Then, with special emphasis, "Irrationals?"

She shook her head.  "No.  But you're at zero for now."

It was nice when we made it back to her car, since that meant that the date was almost over.  But when she started the engine, it wouldn't kick in.  I had a similar problem with my car a couple of years prior, so I asked her if I could check it out.

I slowly held down the gas pedal when I started it up, and it turned on.  She said, "Ten all the way, bucko."

I waited for her to drive me back to the lot where my car was parked, and I sprang it on her.  "You know," I said, "The fact that you rated me on everything out loud was kind of... well, kind of unusual."

"Want to know you final score?"

"My final score?"

She looked so happy.  I sighed.  "Yes please.  What's my final score?"

She looked up as if calculating.  Then she calculated some more.  Then some more.

"I forgot," she said.

"Damn," I said, "That earns a great big zero."

"What?"

"The fact that you can't remember my score.  That earns a zero, I'm afraid."

Then she made a face.  That Taylor Lautner meet-and-greet?  Surprise!  It's Steve Buscemi!  And he hasn't eaten in three days!

She said, "Get out of my car."

"Cathy–"

"Get out!"

"You're–"

She screamed.  I jumped out of the car and slammed the door.  She backed up, nearly hit an oncoming car in the lot, and screeched away.  I didn't hear from her after that, and that, my friends, is an 11.